Five portions of my love

They say absence makes the heart grow fonder,

but what you don’t see you tend to forget.

Neither worked for me,

I remembered them regardless of their absence,

Hatred grew even though they hide in unknown shadows.

They say keep it simple,

So I formed a mnemonic, tattooed it on my wrist.

I stare at it conjuring up images 

They took what mattered 

The law said it was complicated

I said simplify it, they didn’t.

I had only one wish,

to bequeath a special gift this valentine.

My mind insisted on it,

The gift of a red bleeding conscience.

It’s midnight ……

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♠♠♠♠♠

Love by it’s very nature lends itself to the conjuring of twisted vines, secret rendezvous and get away rides to a land of heroes and divinity. Love by the nature we conferred on it thrives on complicated storylines rather than simple tales. Alas love relies on the mnemonics numbers and seasons to keep it’s memories aflame.

♠♠♠♠♠

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Like shadows on a plain
A solidarity in depth we share,
seemingly oblivious of our varying frame.

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Like rising shadows from the vale,

A disparity in height emerges,

youthful gale an illusive veil.

 

Like shadows in the dark,

A blade carving slowly through illusions heart 

reality dawns with a harsh bark.

 

Like shadows embracing the light,

A rebirthing occurs 

strengthened arms ready to write.

We assume to be on the same level with others based on the visible, however some have more room for growth than others. Thus some limit themselves whilst others overestimate their capacity for growth. 

Life is very smart. Under certain circumstances you’re on top and under others you’re limited or in need of more growth. Never become complacent.

 

 

So this happened …..

I have been off my blog for a while now and have sorely missed my blogging family and friends. I hope the poems and photo explain why i have been off for a while.

Poems for my babies reflecting our breastfeeding journey:

May:
I’ve a riddle
A riddle indeed,
I am a place, a source
A season, a platform
for nature’s new forage.
What am I?
I stretch, I wiggle
bouncing off the board,
in leaps with a giggle.
What keeps you so, pray tell?
You ask,
I will tell you,
It’s neither boiled nor cooled
Neither filtered nor bottled
Perfectly fresh
On time each time
Mama’s liquid gold
All for me
Fresh as due on springs first morn.

October:
The halo is here
There’s nowhere to hide
Racing orbs of orange
Course through the streets,
Chasing fallen leaves and pumpkin shrines.
What’s this I see?
Tiny feet trailing
down the trick or treat path
I pray the heavens guide
them far from the headless horseman.
The halo’s here
But it won’t find me alone
I snuggle deeper into mama’s bosom
Safe from harm
Phantom or Hyde.

November:
A splash of colours
Green for the elf
Orange for the gnome
Brown for Rudolf’s calf,
And red for the squires home.
Something reminiscent of seasons gone,
A shiny memento for winters gloom.
And what pray ye shall a wee lad have
Something warm,
Something steadfast
A gourmet of nature’s finest
Mama’s milky cuddles
Ample burping shoulders
To shield me through the cold.

leo and logi

To a fair maiden at court.

Where loyalty means naught,

gossip runs amok the corridors of gentry.

‘Tis wisdom to fold the tongue within

lest a knife they find beneath your breast at morn.

Alas not a soul will be held to ransom

for this ghastly deed; for it is the way of the gentry,

is it not?

To kill in the shades of darkness

 for the sake of a ale come ‘morrows eve.

Oh fair maiden ’tis the truth I speak

say not to one ’tis such that ails me.

What help is a Samaritan to a Jew

or a Jew to a Samaritan

if the oath of humanity is not revered by both.

‘Do unto another … as you will them do unto you’

Tis not help they seek to offer my beloved

but a morsel of fat they hope to gain

an offering to grease the sizzling pans of gossip.

For to truly help another

the sands on their heels must not be ignored

nor the scars on their backs.

From this they have been shaped

From this they must shape the future

guided with dignity

and not the arms of a narcissistic saviour.

Oh fair maiden heed my advice

Stay far from the morsel of gossip

it breeds you nothing but a soul fattened with maggots.

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A crisp dance

Salt and vinegar

Cheese and onions,

Crinkled and smooth

Smoked and spicy,

Dipped in sauce

Eaten alone,

Eaten from elegant bone china

Eaten straight  from shinny packs,

On the go

Or on the couch,

Sun up or sun down

25pence or 1pound a pack,

The crunchy sound of teeth mingling with crisp cannot be mistaken.

neither can an unhealthy relationship between the pocket and waistline be missed

when a loyal union is formed between the teeth and crisps.

Written for daily post word prompt – crisp

 

Pixabay free images

 

 

 

 

Daily bread

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……….give us this day our daily bread

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some have food, but cannot eat

some can eat, but have no food.

We found food and we can eat

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Once was a time, when daily bread was a major need

from eras marked by; boars roasted over open fires,

fruits picked fresh from forest floors

broths made in pans enough to feed a neighbourhood.

To new one’s filed with; fancy dishes vibrant with colours

fruits grown in air filled with who knows what

meals that leave your tongue tingly with pleasure

but bellies hollow with churning walls.

What then was the essence of daily bread?

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Man has indeed come a very long way

from meeting basic needs to creating greedy vacuums

Man has indeed come a long way

from conquering the wild to conquering his neighbour

Man has travelled far…..

very far from the person he was or sort to become to the person he despised.

In the search of daily bread

steal not the flour for todays child.

Easter’s hope

20160927_190919On a night like this,

beneath clouds of white concrete

a cradle of motionless stars;

I sit and ponder,

the mystery of a king

trading his life for a starry eyed wonderer.

What would he have said

of this wooden jungle grounded in concrete,

mini-cages holding lives

he wills the gift of freedom,

healing rooms that cure the coffin

but not the bone.

Aye! I ask myself,

what would he have thought,

of boxes that look within but see not the person,

of mirrors that speak the truth

in syllabus that only the deaf comprehend.

Of little value is the spring dew

to the flesh of a spirit languishing from thirst.

On a night as such,

beneath white concrete clouds

I ask myself

of what use are stars

if they lead us nowhere in the dark.

If ….

If all the knives in the house were bread knives

with what would we butter our toast.

If all the knives in the house were matches

with what would we cut out vegetables.

If all the knives were the same

what a grace-less act it would be enjoy a simple meal

and a horrendous ordeal to chop the wood with a table knife.

If you and I were the same,

of what use is the day and night?

All for nought would be the

strings of silence played by the mid-night breeze.

All for nought the

chorus of birds at the command of a rising sun.


A hearty welcome to all new followers, viewers and faithful virtual friends, you gladden my heart. On this quest were many cry ‘abandon this infatuation’ I sincerely appreciate all those who haven’t dissented.

Happy Easter.

Nature’s frame.

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Shards of frozen crystals settle on a rock

Beauty lends itself a home on a bedrock of strength.

Exquisitely adorned by nature.

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I feel your strength engulfing me

bidding me live, bidding me stand

in-spite of your cold and aloof nature.

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Set this frame right next to me

and when cold hands come beckoning

The ambience of happy days spent with you shall comfort me.


Written for the daily post and photo challenge.

Slain

On the altar of hope lies a crimson heart

char my doubts,

pray the wind at dawn scatter my ashes 

unto distant shores of pleasant pastures.

it wails.

∗∗∗

On the shores of an abyss lies a patched mind

swallow my pain,

pray  the waves at dusk snatch my memory

into depths unknown from which none shall return

it wails.

∗∗∗

On the cross of forgiveness lies a broken body

salvage my wounds

pray the dew of heaven nourish my flesh

healing every crevice blotting out every scar

it cries.

∗∗∗

On the altar of love, a voice beckons … 

’tis but for a season’ this too …

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